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"The courage which scareth away ghosts, createth for itself goblins...I no longer feel in common with you." the Peachy Book I Chapter 7 Thus Spake Zarathustra

Snapper Creek is the kind of bar that induces philosophical thinking. You sit here and look around, at Cap'n Ron composing biology lessons over his fifth glass of chardonnay, Kevin O'Rourke in the midst of his coke high jumping off a barstool, and Jacob shyly slinking behind his Rolling Rock and think "Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here?"

"What are you writing?" Texas T has showed up and she, the Amazon, and Arthur are all curious about what I am scribbling on napkins. I emailed the Amazon the lobster story and now she is determined to be consistently blogworthy. She is watching what I write wondering if she is destined for the blog again. The others have no idea why I am taking notes and do not ask. Still I begin to write my notes in code. The next day I will have no idea what I meant. I begin to write comments from famous philosophers Nietzsche, Machiavelli, Marcus Aurelius.

Arthur is playing pool. "So ladies," says Texas T chewing on a stirrer and twirling her hair. "What with things with Arthur and I being...strained, I was wondering if you were angry with me." I look at the Amazon who looks away.On the top of the napkin I write, "What would Machiavelli do?" Some twit has written a book on the subject, but I wonder if Niccolo and I were sitting in this bar, what would he lean over and whisper to me. I laugh, and the Amazon joins me. "Of course nothing is wrong." "Oh I guess that's just my paranoia." Later the Amazon remarked "That's how stupid she is. She believed it." "No," I'll correct her," Arthur TOLD her what we said. It was a test. To see if she could trust us." Clearly she can't. What she doesn't know is that I know I can't trust her either. A confederacy of liars.

My gay husband and I had taken a walk earlier in the day. "So Texas T and Arthur are back together." "Oh no,"I retort, "he told us on Wednesday night, he's just being nice to her. He had some sort of revelation after the heart attack." "Don't you believe it, honey. They were back together on Sunday. They made love" and inwardly I cringe at his use of the word "making love" just days before they were trading break up notes like 14 year olds "they made love that afternoon. They were in shower together at his father's house when he passed out."

There are times when my Mona Lisa like expression has its advantages. I looked out towards the water and contemplated what I had just been told. Arthur had sex with his girlfriend in his parents house and then passed out naked with his girlfriend in his father's shower. His father then had to take his unconscious wet son and his hysterical wet girlfriend to New York Presbyterian hospital. I didn't even smile. My gay husband and I walked side by side in silence for a bit. "Those two, neither one of them, they don't know how to tell the truth." I look at him, "It's because neither one of them really lives on this planet."

Arthur is drinking vodka cranberries. He now has the seal of Marchosi on his arm. It peaks out from under his t-shirt as he plays pool. With all the information I have at my disposal, I think what I could do. I could tell her what Arthur told the Amazon about the unsatisfactory sex. I could tell her about how he, of his own freewill, referred to her behavior as stalker like and psychopathic. I could tell her how we all lied last week about where we were to avoid her. I could crush their happiness like an ant on the sidewalk.

Instead I order my first drink of the evening and wonder what am I doing here with these people? Why am I wasting my life in this pathetic dive slowly transforming into Cap'n Ron with people I don't even like? In order to solve crimes the police often have to sift through trash to find clues, to find objects of use. I have turned into that trash sifter. Arthur sees me write this on a napkin picks it up and says "You know the police really do that" as if the second part of the sentiment isn't even there.

Chocolate Thunder (who gave herself that name) sees my quotations written on napkins. She begins to talk to the Amazon. All I over hear is "I am one philosophical bitch." I decide that should be the title of my first novel.

Before Texas T leaves the Amazon takes her aside and tells her that we were lying. They talk for half an hour. The Amazon comes back and tells me what she has done. I have node desire to rectify our relationship. I want the relationship terminated. Suddenly now the Amazon has sympathy for her. "I remember what it was like to move here with nothing." So do I. I'm not so old as not to remember that. I also know that even in Texas they have manners.

Chocolate Thunder, Texas T, Arthur, all saunter off to their own respective cubby holes. Although the Amazon wants another drink she asks of Sean, our diabetic bartender, to "persuade her to be smart." I write this on a napkin and underneath she writes "The Amazon Speaketh." She asks if it will be on the blog.

The next day I wake up and read some of One Hundred Years of Solitude. I am struck by this line "The best friend a person has is one who has just died."